


whatever the tides may bring us

by neutralize



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Post-Canon, Roommates, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutralize/pseuds/neutralize
Summary: The first time Grimsley finds the stranger sprawled out beneath the half-dead palm tree on the edge of his property, the ensuing confrontation ends with overripe pecha berries being pelted at him, followed by one of the more colorful strings of obscenities he’s heard in his life.Grimsley, Guzma, and a brief snapshot of an unlikely relationship.





	whatever the tides may bring us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyromanicofthesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyromanicofthesea/gifts).



> For Secret Stantler 2017, where domestic Guzma and Grimsley was requested. It's... something. Mostly Guzma being Guzma, I guess. It works out well enough, I think? Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

The first time Grimsley finds the stranger sprawled out beneath the half-dead palm tree on the edge of his property, the ensuing confrontation ends with overripe pecha berries being pelted at him, followed by one of the more colorful strings of obscenities he’s heard in his life. “Call the cops, see if I care,” the stranger snarls, wobbling to his feet. “Beachfront’s public property anyway, old man.”

“Perhaps, but the part you’re on is not,” Grimsley replies evenly, hand jumping into the sleeve of his kimono to pull out the first pokeball his fingers brush against. “Of course, if you’d like to press the point further, I suppose I have time to listen.” The silence that hangs in the air is tense, but the bluff works when the stranger stalks away - though not before flipping Grimsley off and mumbling more swear words.

The second time Grimsley finds him, it’s in a grassy ditch near Route 16. He actually finds the masquerain first, flitting angrily at him when Grimsley tries to get closer; he backs up, putting his hands out as a makeshift peace offering. This time, he’s able to study the sleeping figure in more detail, and it dawns on him he knows the man - not personally, of course, but he’s seen enough newspaper clippings and occasional glimpses on the pokecenter televisions to know he’s not a nameless face in Alola. The newfound discovery only raises more questions instead of answering them. “Tell me, how long have you been wandering around like this?” he asks.

Guzma cracks open a bleary eye, staring down Grimsley before answering. “You always this nosy, or do I have some kind of target on my back attracting weird old men like you?” he drawls, before slamming his eye shut. “Ain’t illegal to catch a couple winks, last I checked,” he adds on irritably. His clothing is streaked with dirt and the unkempt way his greasy hair frames his face suggests it’s been several days, maybe weeks, since Guzma has last touched running water, and though Grimsley is less than pleased with the attitude, a familiar feeling settles itself inside him when he realizes it hasn’t been that long since he’s seen the same worn-down man in dusty mirrors himself.

“No,” Grimsley says, “but I can think of other places where sleeping might be more comfortable. If you’re so inclined, come with me. I have a spare room, and I certainly don’t mind the company.”

Guzma keeps his eyes open this time, the frown cutting itself into his features. “What’re you playing at here? No one just asks a random stranger to come crash at their place for no good reason.”

“I have nothing to hide, if that’s what you’re concerned about. But I think a bed certainly beats sleeping in an odd, lonely place like this, wouldn’t you say?”

The look of suspicion on Guzma’s face finally eases when he sits up and says, “Whatever. Fine. But you better not try anything funny. I ain’t got much to show for it now, but I once had punks tripping over themselves to work underneath me.”

“I’m aware of Team Skull, yes,” Grimsley replies, and when Guzma blanches, he has enough decency not to snort. “My name is Grimsley. It’s nice to meet you in person - I’ve heard plenty about you, Guzma.”

“Tch. Don’t get so familiar with me, old man,” is the only thing Guzma mumbles, but he still follows Grimsley when he begins to walk away.

\--

If he’s honest, Grimsley doesn’t notice much of a change after Guzma takes over the spare room in his tiny flat. It isn’t as if Guzma is a particularly thoughtful roommate, but he’s gone more often than not, leaving for stretches of days and coming back at weird, inconsistent hours of the day. The first couple weeks, he keeps his mouth shut - Grimsley doesn’t have a compelling reason to pry, and Guzma is certainly capable of handling himself - but when Guzma unexpectedly stumbles into the kitchen one morning and his white hair is matted with a shock of red, even Grimsley can’t help but to say something.

“There’s more rice on the countertop, if you’re hungry, and there should be some bandages in the bathroom,” he says over his mug of oolong. As an afterthought he adds on, “Although my recommendation to you is steer clear of places that will have you bleeding in the first place.”

Guzma’s expression is a deeply sardonic one, the bags under his eyes making his glare especially pronounced. He grabs an empty bowl from the countertop and scoops a heap of rice into it, muttering, “Thanks, gramps, I’ll be sure to take your advice to heart, if I ever have some of my old gang try and jump me again.”

“Why go back there, though? There isn’t anything left for you in Po Town, is there?”

Guzma freezes up and for a painfully long minute, Grimsley is acutely aware that his question sounds more patronizing than he intended. When Guzma speaks again, it’s quiet but the thread of venom in his words is unmistakable. “Don’t act like you know me,” he spits out. “You don’t know some of the crap I’ve gone through.”

“Try me. You’d be surprised.” Grimsley shifts in his seat, and Guzma glowers. “Surely you have a home outside of Skull, don’t you?”

“Didn’t I tell you not to get so cozy with me? Fuckin’ nosy old man,” Guzma snaps, stalking out of the kitchen. He’s not surprised to hear the front door slam several minutes later, and even less so when Guzma doesn’t return until three days later.

\--

Grimsley’s flat is situated near the ocean, half his backyard brittle grass, the other half white sand. His pokemon don’t care for the ocean, but they play in the grass, and Grimsley keeps a watchful eye on them. The sun beats down bright and hot one afternoon when Grimsley spies a dot on the water, turning into a familiar blip of white when it comes closer to the shore.

“Welcome back,” Grimsley says, when Guzma lumbers off his golisopod. Guzma gives him a cursory nod, before he shoves his hands into his pocket and flings an envelope in Grimsley’s direction. He catches it, and peels back the paper to find a thick stack of crisp pokeyen - but before he can ask, Guzma interrupts him.

“Rent money, so you’re not hounding me for it,” Guzma says gruffly, keeping a wary eye on him. “If ya need more, just… let me know. But that should be enough until I...” He trails off awkwardly, and after another five seconds pass without him saying anything, he lets out a hiss of air, mutters, “Whatever,” and begins to shuffle away, his golisopod dutifully following his wake.

“You know,” Grimsley calls out to his retreating form, “if you need to stay longer, it’s not something I would oppose. I think this arrangement has been working fine, wouldn’t you say?”

Guzma pauses, gives one more distrustful glance towards Grimsley, before he mutters something under his breath that Grimsley doesn’t catch. But he can’t imagine it’s anything bad, after he watches Guzma slink back inside the house, taking care to gently shut the door.

\--

“Why are you being so nice to me, anyway,” Guzma asks him one day. The act is an unusual one, for several reasons: one, Guzma willingly joins Grimsley on the sandy shoreline for once, keeping a careful distance away but still close enough to keep a conversation. More importantly, his tone is more conciliatory than it’s ever been since he first started staying here, a question not entirely rid of roughness, but there’s enough quiet that Grimsley understands the real point Guzma is trying to get at well enough.

“I was in your position once,” Grimsley finally says, after carefully deliberating an answer in silence. His mind wanders to a region far from pristine sand and palm trees, and he thinks of a young trainer with an endless supply of luck on his side, thinks of prestige and luxury that had been snatched away in an instant, fleeting like the flip of a coin - but the ocean breeze brings him back to reality, and he sighs, ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest. “I know what it’s like to have nothing left, when you had everything in the palm of your hand at one point. The important thing is that you don’t succumb to despair and keep moving forward, no matter whether you win or lose.”

The words fade into silence and for a moment, Grimsley wonders whether he imagined saying anything at all. Then Guzma murmurs softly, “I’m trying, but this shit ain’t easy.”

“You have a home outside of Skull.”

“... Yeah.”

“Tell me more.”

And Guzma begins to talk, about Melemele, his travels, his rise, his fall, Ultra Space and sun and stars - Grimsley listens, and notices that Guzma’s voice never shakes, but his words are tired and fragile. When he finishes, he kicks half-heartedly at the sand. “Sorry for the sob story, but… it’s whatever. I guess.”

“May I offer some potentially unwanted advice?”

“That’s literally all you’ve been doing since I’ve been here. What the hell are you asking me for?”

“Go home to Melemele.” When Guzma says nothing, Grimsley adds on, “When you’re ready. It may be hard at first, but it’s a challenge you shouldn’t back down from. You’ve made it this far - you’re definitely strong. There’s no challenge you can’t face if you go back home.” The waves ebb gentle and easy at the shoreline, a soft rush of sound that saturates the air, and Guzma looks beyond the ocean, contemplative.

“You’re irritating as hell,” he mutters at long last, threading a hand through unruly hair. “Might go home just so I don’t have to listen to you blather on anymore.”

“Fair enough sentiment. But hopefully you won’t discount what I’ve said,” Grimsley says, clapping a hand on Guzma’s shoulder. Guzma huffs out an irritated breath of air and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bat Grimsley’s hand away, and when Grimsley grins, Guzma’s lips crack into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not exactly a scowl, either.

\--

\--

The next morning, Grimsley wakes up to an empty house and a note tacked to his bedroom door, with only an address out on Melemele Island hastily scribbled on it. His fingers curl around the paper, and he breathes easy, the tightness in his chest relaxing into something strange he hasn't felt since leaving Unova.


End file.
